Come As You Are

“But you don’t have the passion for it as a career?”

“Exactly. But being a reporter absolutely feeds something I love.”

He leans closer, his palms on his thighs, his eyes holding mine. “What’s that, Sabrina?”

I love that he’s asking me these questions. I adore that he’s curious. Because that’s what I’m enamored of.

“I love curiosity,” I answer. “I love understanding things. I desperately want to understand people, what makes them tick. That’s why I do what I do.”

“Desperation can be a good thing. We should love our careers desperately if we’re going to give so much to them.”

“Desperate love,” I repeat, liking the sound of that. “Yes, we should love desperately. Especially work, since it’s often more reliable than the romantic kind.”

He laughs lightly, one of those you’re preaching to the choir laughs, and I wonder if he’s had the shit kicked out of him by love too. If perhaps he’s so passionate about work because, like me, he’s been on the receiving end of a steel-toed boot. Maybe someday I’ll ask, but it doesn’t feel like it should be an interview question.

“So, you do love what you do?” he asks.

“I do, Inspector Poirot.”

“And you also love understanding new things?”

“I do.”

A slow grin forms, and he strokes an imaginary mustache. “You’ll like where I’m taking you, then.”

“The abandoned subway station, you mean? I read that we can see it on the train at the turnaround. You can catch a glimpse as the train loops around before it heads back uptown.”

“That’s true. You can absolutely see it through the window. But you can also take a tour if you know the right people.”

My eyes widen as surprise courses through me. “You arranged for a tour?”

He shrugs happily. “I thought you might like that.”

I do. I do like it.

And I like him.

Which is the thing I most can’t afford right now, and the list of things I can’t afford is miles long.

16

Sabrina

Scads of New Yorkers scurry off the six line at the last stop. They exit, heading above ground or making connections, continuing with their day. But we stay on.

“Come here,” Flynn says, offering his hand as the doors close.

I take his palm, standing, and he guides me to the scratched, dirty window of the closed door. We peer out, staring at the tiled wall of the platform, his hand pressed to the small of my back. It’s hard for me to not think about his touch. It’s gentle and firm at the same time, and my mind can’t help but assemble images of his hand sliding under my shirt, along my flesh.

I suppress a tremble as the train chugs out of the station, heading into the curving loop at the bottom of the line. “You have to smush your face against the window to get a really good view.”

“Commencing smushing,” I say mechanically. I look at him. “Am I like the robot you built as a kid?”

He scoffs. “If I’d designed a robot that looked and sounded like you, I would still be building robots.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks. A flutter skids down my chest. I will them away, doing my best to ignore these sensations. It’s pointless to linger on them. When this story ends, I’ll still need to focus on work, finding a job, and perhaps covering his business regularly—a direct conflict of interest to any flutters, no matter how they make me feel. I can’t entertain the idea of whether we could try again then, because it’s not a possibility. I’m simply going to enjoy the time with him for what it is.

An interview. A fun interview. The phone in my hand, recording us, is a reminder of that.

We stand by the window as the train rumbles forward at a more leisurely pace this time, as if it knows that its job is to let us catch a glimpse of the past.

“Look,” he whispers, almost reverently, pointing to what’s beyond the scratched glass as the train curves into the loop.

I gasp quietly. It’s like entering a time warp. We’ve slipped back decades. The old, abandoned station is a marvel of days gone by. It’s New York in another era, with vaulted ceilings made of glittering tiles, and stained-glass windows, with mosaics lining the walls. Brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hearkening to days when New York was a city of splendor and gold.

“It reminds me of where we met. The hotel. It had that olden glamour feel,” I say.

“Yes. This is the same. The city in days gone by. This station was the crown jewel of the transit system, and yet they had to shutter the station because it couldn’t accommodate the longer trains. It could only handle five-car trains. It was too curved, too round, so in 1945, they shut it down,” he tells me as we circle past it, the tracks serving as a mere turnaround, offering a now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t view into what once was.

“Why is this your favorite place? Because you only catch a glimpse of it?” I offer, trying to understand what excites him about the abandoned stop.

He shakes his head. “It reminds me that we can all become obsolete at any moment. It reminds me that success is fleeting.” He sweeps his arm out wide, gesturing to the grandeur that has no purpose anymore. “You can have the best transit system in the entire world, and if you don’t plan for the future it can be shut down.”

Nodding, I let that little nugget of insight soak into my brain. A part of me almost hates how quickly I agree with him. I want to quiz him, to poke a hole in his argument, like a good journalist. But I can’t because his observation rings wholly true. “I can see that. It’s like a beautiful warning.”

“Precisely. A reminder that at any moment we might be shut down.”

“Haven?”

He nods. “This station is incredible, and I love it, but I don’t want my company to become a relic.”

“Can I quote you on that?” I ask, because this feels personal, as if we’re diving into territory that needs the consent confirmed.

“Of course.”

He points to the station as we leave it in the rearview. “This is a recognition that there is so much to look out for—the past, the present, and the future. You have to adapt to the changes so that your train can keep using the tracks.”

“Love the metaphor.” I study his face for a moment. “You kind of remind me of old New York.”

“I should be shut down?”

“No,” I say, adamantly. “I mean you. There’s something about you. You’re thoroughly modern, but I could see you fitting into the Gatsby era.”

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” he says, quoting the last line in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most famous work. “Another warning not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Or, wait. Should I not quote Fitzgerald? Same rule as T.S. Eliot for you, Miss English major?”

“Exactly. You’re asking for trouble,” I say, smiling, since I’m amused, maybe even overwhelmed by Flynn. He has so many layers. I want to keep peeling away at them, peeking at what lurks inside. “You’re an interesting man. You’re not just a math nerd. You’re a Renaissance man.”

“Is that so?”

I nod resolutely. “You are.”

He shrugs, and his lips curve into a smile. It’s one of those I’ll take it grins, and I love it.